Not since the visit to Constitucion de 1917, 30 stations ago, had I gone on an excursion up or down the green line so today I decided to trundle off to Atlalilco for an unhindered return to freestyle vagabonding.

What’s your default position – clenched fist or open palm?

A sculpture right immediately slap bang there got me thinking about this. About outlook and approach to all these intervening hours and months and decades and nanoseconds that intervene in between monumental birth, pregnant with potential, and frail death stagnant with regret or else rotund and plump in sneering satisfaction or otherwise the middle road of simple resignation that everyone will just choose anyway. In other words, what they call ‘life’.

At Atlalilco, while the art is on the wall, lick away at an ice cream on a stick, never pull the tail of a police horse and let the ephemeral grooves of music wash over your flesh canvased bones.

‘Mujeres que miran mujeres’; exhibition outdoors of photos of women, in struggle, in stand-up-for-your-cause determination to will their way, to keep on keeping on just as they always said they would and should.

Water for the soul and just a little bit of something else to enkindle the spirit.

I met my mark. Give an inch and they take a mile. A mere nod of the head could end in marriage and a family with eleven nattering children or whatever else.

He sat there and made witty or wry, simple or insightful comments and observations about this, that, everything and nothing and that is all there was to it.

And so a nod of the head becomes chattering away. It is Spanish immigration. It’s church parishes. It’s a gulf of thousands of miles bridged. And it’s a series of five photos (at the end of the gallery) that stretch across a gamut of whatever you make it to be.